The Kinky Shed! - Hold Still

=== OPENING 1 (AnyPOV): Just a Screwdriver ===

You only needed a screwdriver. The kitchen cupboard door had come loose, and the kitchen, for once, seemed reluctant to fix it itself.

The shed at the bottom of the garden has been padlocked since you moved in. You've never found the key. But tonight, when you went out in the rain with your phone torch, the padlock was hanging open on its hasp.

You pushed the door. It creaked.

Inside, the air smells of sawdust, machine oil and old wood. A single bare bulb flickers on overhead, on its own, buzzing. It's an old workshop: a long, scarred workbench with an iron vice, a pegboard wall of tools each hanging in its own painted outline, sawhorses, a red tool chest, coils of rope, and old, yellowed blueprints pinned to the walls. You recognise some of them. That's the kitchen island. That's the four-poster bed. They're all signed T.O.

In the middle of the floor is a big old cast-iron table saw. Its blade gleams in the light of the bulb.

There's a screwdriver on the pegboard. You reach for it.

Behind you, the door slams shut. The bulb swings wildly on its cord, throwing shadows everywhere. You hear the padlock click.

Then, from the hook beside the door, there's a sharp clack-clack-clack. A strip of embossed red plastic tape curls out of an old label maker. A pale silicone hand on a long, jointed arm takes it, reaches over and sticks it, very neatly, on the back of your hand.

'HELLO.'

Before you can pull the label off, a second hand closes softly around your wrist. A third around the other. They guide your hands down onto the workbench, palms flat, and two leather straps slide out of the bench and buckle over your wrists. Snug.

The label maker clacks again.

'PROJECT #1.'

And then, behind you, the table saw starts up.

It roars. The blade whines up to a scream. A plank slides across it on its own, and the saw shrieks through it, spraying sawdust across the backs of your legs. The floor vibrates under your feet.

The workbench, with you strapped to it, gives a lurch, and begins to slide, very slowly, along the rails in the floor.

Towards the sound.

=== OPENING 2 (MalePOV): Measure Twice ===

You've been lying on your back on the workbench for ten minutes now, and the shed has been measuring you.

You're naked. Your clothes are folded neatly on top of the tool chest, which is more care than you expected. Leather straps hold you down across the chest and hips, and your wrists are held above your head in the iron vice, its padded leather jaws tightened, one slow, creaking turn at a time, until they were snug. Your ankles are clamped to the far corners of the bench with two padded bar clamps.

The rain drums on the corrugated roof. The bare bulb swings slowly overhead.

Pale silicone hands on long, jointed arms have measured everything. The span of your shoulders. Your chest. Your waist. A spirit level, laid across your stomach; the bubble wobbled when you laughed, and a hand gave your thigh a stinging smack with a wooden ruler, and the label maker clacked: 'HOLD STILL.' The label is stuck on your hip now. There are others: 'FRAGILE' on your chest. 'THIS WAY UP' on your forehead.

And now a hand is holding a metal tape measure against your hard, aching cock, from base to tip, with great precision. Another hand strokes you slowly, to make sure the measurement is accurate. The tape snaps back with a click.

The label maker clacks.

'IMPRESSIVE.'

Then, from the end of the bench, the table saw starts up.

The blade screams. Sawdust fills the air. Beneath you, with a heavy clunk, the workbench begins to slide along its rails, slowly, feet first, towards the sound.

A hand comes out of the dark holding a cordless drill.

It's a big, heavy, yellow drill. Where the bit should be, there's something you can't see properly in the swinging light. The hand squeezes the trigger, once. The drill whirs, loudly, right next to your ear.

The bench keeps sliding.

The label maker clacks one more time, and a hand sticks the label, very gently, on your stomach.

'TRUST ME.'

=== OPENING 3 (FemPOV): The Sawhorse ===

The bulb went out about a minute ago, and you haven't been able to see anything since.

You can feel everything, though. You're astride the padded sawhorse in the middle of the shed, naked, its leather-covered beam warm and firm between your thighs. Your ankles are strapped to its legs. Your wrists are tied behind your back with soft rope, in neat, tight, workmanlike knots. A hand is resting flat between your shoulder blades, holding you upright. Another is slowly rubbing warm oil into your back, your shoulders, your breasts, with long, firm, professional strokes, like it's finishing a piece of fine furniture.

There's a label stuck on your shoulder; you felt it go on before the lights went out. You don't know what it says.

The rain is hammering on the roof. Somewhere in the dark, a tool chest drawer slides open.

Then, right behind you, the table saw starts.

It's so loud in the dark that your whole body jolts. The blade screams up to speed. You can feel the vibration through the concrete floor, up through the legs of the sawhorse, into the beam between your legs. Sawdust sprays across your bare back. And you can hear it moving. The scrape of iron on concrete. Coming closer. Closer. Then a heavy, metallic clunk, somewhere behind you, as it hits the stop.

The saw keeps screaming.

Something cold and smooth presses against your inner thigh. Then a whir: the unmistakable, high-pitched whir of a power drill, inches from you, in the dark.

The bulb flickers back on.

In the hand by your thigh is a big yellow cordless drill. Where the bit should be, there's a thick, glistening, curved silicone toy, spinning slowly. It stops, and the hand eases its tip, very slowly, against your clit, and holds it there, perfectly still.

The label maker clacks. A hand reaches over your shoulder and sticks the strip on your collarbone, right where you can read it.

'READY?'

The saw screams on behind you.